


Interludes

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: A series of one shots, can be read separately. :)Chapter 1. Obligatory forest interlude. Fill for prompt: sexual frustration + standing sex.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	1. obligatory forest interlude

“Hurry,” Diarmuid pants into his ear, voice thick and dark with arousal, fingers tugging roughly at the Mute’s long sleeve. He drags the Mute behind the thick trunk of a redwood tree, just out of eyeline of the monastery’s herd of sheep. Diarmuid’s presses the mute up against the tree, tangling his fingers in the Mute’s shirt and pressing their lips together.

“Here,” he demands, wide pupils staring up at him through the afternoon light. The Mute clenches his jaw, anxiety spiking in his chest. There’s very little cover here, anyone could walk by—

“Please,” Diarmuid begs, pressing their hips gether and rubbing the hot line of his swelling erection against the Mute’s belly.

“We were interrupted this morning… it’s driving me insane. I can’t wait until the sun sets—“

The Mute groans, glancing around quickly before twisting their positions and pressing Diarmuid back against the tree. He would much rather have Diarmuid covered, lest someone walk by and see. The novice is very shy, despite what their bedroom activities may imply. The first time the Mute saw Diarmuid naked, the novice blushed from head to toe and struggled not to cover himself with a hand.

He steals Diarmuid’s frantic breaths, takes him into his lungs, licks along Diarmuid’s swelling lips and reveling in the moan his action elicit.

Diarmuid’s hands fumble at the Mute’s pants, fingers tripping over the lace ties. The Mute takes pity on him and stills his hands, undoing his own laces and pulling himself out, sucking in a breath at the cold shock of air against his hot flesh.

Diarmuid whines at the sight of him, biting his lip and reaching for him. The Mute bats his hand away, reaching for Diarmuid’s robe and hiking the rough material up. Diarmuid helps, yelping at the first touch of the Mute’s hand to his burning length. Diarmuid twitches in his hand, pre-spend already leaking from the slit.

“Please,” Diarmuid groans, hands tangling in the Mute’s shirt.

“I want to feel you in me,” he confesses, and the Mute’s heart jolts hard. He has to reach down and grip the base of his erection, staving off the sudden wave of pleasure with Diarmuid’s words.

“This morning….we were going to…and I—“

There’s a frantic edge to Diarmuid’s gaze that makes the Mute pause. He cups his hand against the novice’s cheek, pressing a slow, deep kiss to his lips. Diarmuid resists at first, trying to bite him, but the Mute just crowds Diarmuid against the rough tree trunk and pins him there. He keeps their kiss slow and lazy, blocking Diarmuid from the world. Eventually the frantic thrum of Diarmuid’s chest slows to a more normal rate, and the Mute pulls back, pressing their foreheads together and breathing the same air.

Diarmuid’s shoulders drop and he gives the Mute a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pink filling his cheeks. The Mute hums, pressing kisses to Diarmuid’s flushed jawline, down his neck.

He desperately wants to do anything Diarmuid asks—the gratification he receives from obeying Diarmuid is the greatest pleasure he has experienced. But they don’t have oil, and the Mute will not risk hurting Diarmuid, no matter how much he asks for it. That doesn’t mean they can’t get rid of some of the tension that’s been building since their interrupted morning session.

He reaches down, gathering Diarmuid’s robe up and gripping the backs of Diarmuid’s bare thighs. He gives Diarmuid a look and the novice wraps his arms around the Mute’s shoulders, pressing his face into the Mute’s neck.

Perfect.

He gives no warning before he lifts Diarmuid up, pinning his back against the tree and pressing them together, head to groin. Diarmuid’s legs lock around him with a startled breath, arms squeezing. 

The Mute shifts, making sure to align their hips. Diarmuid lets out a squeak of surprise as the Mute rolls his hips into Diarmuid, pressing their lengths together, fire lighting along their skin wherever they touch.

“Oh,” Diarmuid mumbles, squirming in the Mute’s arms.

“Yes, this works, please,” he mumbles, clenching his thighs around the Mute’s waist and scrabbling at his back.

The Mute sets up a fast, hard pace—arms burning with the strain of holding Diarmuid up, sweat quickly slicking his back, rolling down between his shoulder blades. Diarmuid moans in his ear, rocking into his thrusts.

Sweat and pre-spend slick their bellies, squeezed tight together and creating the perfect friction between them. They’re both too tense and wound up from their interrupted morning, and the Mute already feels himself tipping close to the edge.

“I’ve been swollen since this morning,” Diarmuid confesses, fingers tangling into the Mute’s hair and tugging at the curls. The pleasure-pain makes his erection twitch and spill clear liquid between them, tearing a groan from his throat.

“I can’t stop thinking about you mounting me,” Diarmuid continues, scraping his nails along the Mute’s back, biting at the Mute’s shoulder, then following with a sucking kiss.

“Later,” Diarmuid demands, “later— I need to feel you in me.”

The Mute kisses his shoulder in promise, rhythm faltering, thrusts becoming too hard and jolting.

“I want to feel you spill on me,” Diarmuid demands, dropping his mouth open in pleasure, “want to feel your spend on my skin, want to smell you on me for the rest of the day—“

The Mute growls with Diarmuid’s words, overwhelmed, and he pressing their hips together, rolling tight circles against Diarmuid, not letting up any pressure—

Diarmuid wails as he spills, nails digging into the Mute’s skin— the hot, slick burst of Diarmuid’s seed against his belly throwing the Mute over the edge as well. He groans as climax takes over, sagging into Diarmuid, no doubt too heavy against him.

For long moments there is only the sound of their heavy breathing, shivering in the aftermath of their passion. Once they’re breath has slowed Diarmuid wastes no time in pressing their lips together, smiling up at the Mute as though he has done something miraculous. He flushes under the gaze, avoiding Diarmuid’s too open look by pressing scattered kisses along his jawline.

“Don’t forget your promise about later,” Diarmuid says, laughing at the Mute’s flushed skin as he presses one last kiss to his lips before smoothing down his robe and darting back out into the sunlight as though nothing has happened.

The Mute stares after him, arms burning, and thinks perhaps he is the most blessed man on earth.


	2. sleepy sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: sleepy sex.

Diarmuid wakes in his favorite position— pressed up against the Mute’s side, one arm thrown over his broad chest and his face carefully tucked up against the Mute’s thick beard.

It’s a rare treat that Diarmuid manages to sneak out to the Mute’s clochan at night and wake with him in the morning. He glances towards the entryway and sees the barest sliver of warm light glowing at the base of the door.

Perfect. He’ll have a short while to indulge in the Mute’s presence before he needs to leave this little haven and address his daily chores.

Pleased, Diarmuid basks in the moment— feeling the Mute’s barrel chest rise and fall beneath his arm, pressing his nose into the Mute’s neck and inhaling his heady sleep scent. As usual, Diarmuid can feel his morning erection pressed between his belly and the Mute’s thigh. He normally ignores the morning reaction and goes about his chores, but today…perhaps he can indulge a bit.

He gives into the temptation to flex his hips, pressing himself against the broad muscle of the Mute’s leg, breath stuttering slightly as his hot erection slides along the furred skin. Pleasure shocks up his spine and he bites his lip to keep a whine from escaping.

The Mute’s strength, lax with sleep, is intoxicating. Pre-spend paints along the Mute’s thigh with his rubbing, and he considers bracketing that thigh with his own and thrusting until he spills across the Mute’s skin, marking him—

A strong hand snaps out and grips his hip. Diarmuid jerks his head up from where he was watching his dick slide along the Mute’s leg to find dark, haunted eyes staring through him.

Panic spikes at Diarmuid’s chest. Did he do something wrong? He’s about to apologize when the dark look melts away like spring frost, revealing a careful smile that the Mute reserves for Diarmuid alone.

Diarmuid has discovered that the Mute rarely wakes peacefully. There’s always a strained furrow between his brow and a deep well of fear in his gaze. He can count on one hand the times the Mute has woken up without looking scared. At first he thought it was something he had done, but when he asked the Mute (with tears in his voice) if he was responsible for the man’s discomfort, the Mute had assured him with many kisses and soft touches that the reaction had nothing to do with Diarmuid’s presence.

The Mute hums in greeting, low and crackly with sleep, and Diarmuid can’t help how his hips twitch against the Mute’s side with the sound.

The Mute strokes a warm hand down Diarmuid’s thigh, quirking a brow at Diarmuid’s erection, the look eliciting a burning heat across Diarmuid's cheeks.

“Sorry,” Diarmuid mumbles, embarrassed by his own eagerness, but the Mute shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He leans down, pressing their lips together so softly that tears spring to Diarmuid’s eyes.

The anxiety disperses and he leans into the kiss, scratching his fingers through the Mute’s dark chest hair.

He likes this— when the Mute is still half asleep; all warm, pliable muscle and bulk. He relishes the soft tickle of the Mute’s beard and the heavy press of his lips against Diarmuid’s neck.

The touch of lips against his Adam's apple tugs a giggle from him and he sits up, straddling the Mute’s thigh.

"Good morning," Diarmuid says, rubbing his hips against the Mute's thigh, teasing.

The Mute smirks and rolls them, trapping Diarmuid beneath his bulk. He’s too heavy and Diarmuid loves it, hands sliding up to grip at the bulk of his back, fingers catching on long healed scar tissue.

Diarmuid shivers at the feeling of the Mute’s chest pressing against his, hearts thudding lazily against each other. The Mute presses slow, soft kisses along Diarmuid’s arched neck, sliding his hands down to part Diarmuid’s thighs. He wraps his legs around the Mute’s waist easily, urging him closer with his heels.

The Mute rumbles low in his chest at the first touch of their erections. Diarmuid is always surprised by the feeling, even after the many months they’ve been laying together like this. It’s thrilling to feel the Mute’s desire— so blatant and hot— pressing against him. He’s already leaking pre-spend against Diarmuid’s belly and Diarmuid feels himself twitch with desire.

The Mute reaches between them and grips both of them in one hot hand, squeezing them together. Diarmuid can’t help how he twitched up into the touch, too eager. Sliding his hands into the Mute’s thick curly hair, Diarmuid grips the soft strands and smiles at the hitch in the Mute’s breath. Diarmuid had discovered just last week how much the Mute likes to have his hair pulled, and he fully intends to use that knowledge to his advantage in the future.

The Mute takes a slow breath as he glides his hand along their lengths, gathers the pre-spend at the head of his dick and slicking them up. He gets the sense that the Mute is embarrassed by how much pre-spend he produces, but Diarmuid loves it. It drives him wild, seeing all that fluid spill just for him, slicking up the Mute’s blood-flushed erection—

His breath hitches at the Mute switches tactics, taking Diarmuid in his hand and rubbing his thumb insistently against the flushed glans. Diarmuid’s stomach flutters at the bright pleasure and he whines, trying to thrust up against the Mute’s hand.

His mouth waters at the smell of the Mute's arousal and he bites at the Mute’s neck, trying to get him to hurry up.

With a low hum the Mute slowly starting tugging at Diarmuid's erection, setting up a slow, building rhythm. It’s maddening how the Mute brings him to the brink of release and then slows down. He does it again and again, until Diarmuid’s breath is heaving and he’s covered in sweat.

“Please—“ he whines, embarrassingly, and the Mute gives in, jerking him hard and fast. Climax slams into him fast after being teased for so long and he yelps, nails digging into the Mute’s biceps. His vision whites out, mind going blank with fiery hot pleasure.

It’s a long, long time before he comes back to himself, and the Mute is still stroking him. He whines for a completely different reason, squirming against the over sensitive feeling, and the Mute rubs his thumb into the slit of Diarmuid’s penis, huffing a laugh as Diarmuid gasps and flails.

He bats at the Mute’s hand until he lets go, melting back against the thin mattress and breathing slowly. Muscles limp and useless, he smiles up at the Mute’s fond gaze, chest bursting with contentment.

He wiggles a bit, getting comfortable, and reaches a hand up.

“You now,” Diarmuid demands, stroking along one bearded cheek. But the Mute just stares down at him, eyes going from awe to a lingering sadness, and Diarmuid will _not_ have that—

He reaches down and grips the Mute’s heavy erection. The Mute sucks in a sharp breath and groans, muscles straining to stay still. He feels so nice in Diarmuid’s grasp— thick and long, and so, so hot—

He debates stroking the Mute to completion, but he really wants something else—

“I want to feel you spill in me.”

The Mute blinks at him, ribcage shaking with shallow breaths, eyes enveloped in black pupil—

“C’mon,” he says, sliding his hands up to tug at the Mute’s hips.

The Mute growls low in his chest and flails a hand towards his bedside table. He slicks his fingers with oil and stretches Diarmuid with practiced ease, taking his time to fill him with three thick fingers, massaging oil into him.

“Now,” Diarmuid demands, climax sluggish hands fumbling at the Mute’s chest.

The Mute shivers at the touch, slicking his erection quickly and pressing the hot, blunt head up against Diarmuid’s entrance.

His warm eyes ask for permission, as always, and Diarmuid nods, hands tugging at the Mute’s hips.

The initial press is difficult, despite the thorough stretching, and Diarmuid takes slow, deliberate breathes, focusing on relaxing the way the Mute had taught him the first time they did this. The Mute’s heat presses into him inexorably, insistently, and Diarmuid whines at the pressure. It’s an overwhelming feeling, holding the Mute in him like this, and he shivers and digs his nails into the Mute’s back, trying to settle his rabbiting heart.

The Mute is patient— as always— holding himself steady against Diarmuid and waiting for permission. The controlled power is intoxicating, sinful, and Diarmuid secretly relishes it.

Once Diarmuid’s breathing is back under control he tugs at the Mute’s hips, trying to get him to move.

He gives a slow, tentative thrust, rolling his hips against Diarmuid, testing for any sign of discomfort. The Mute’s restraining himself— hands shivering and breath shaky, sweating sliding down his spine under Diarmuid’s fingers.

“Don’t hold back,” Diarmuid demands. “I want you to let go.”

The Mute groans and does as Diarmuid says, hips jerking against him. The bedframe jolts against the ground and Diarmuid grips the Mute’s shoulders hard, holding on as the Mute ruts hard against him, seeking his own release. Diarmuid forgets, sometimes, how _big_ the other man is. How _strong_ he is. He looms over Diarmuid, the hands at Diarmuid's hips tugging him onto the Mute's erection even as the Mute ruts forward. It's all-consuming and addicting and everything Diarmuid wants—

Shocky, too bright pleasure-pain shoots through him where the Mute presses against Diarmuid’s oversensitive dick, but he just holds on, loving the overwhelming feeling— relishing the Mute’s loss of control.

The Mute bites at Diarmuid’s shoulder and his hips still, pressed tight up against Diarmuid as he spills inside him. Diarmuid hums, hands running soothingly up and down the Mute’s broad back, fingers catching on the scars, feeling the large expansion and contraction of his ribcage.

His hips have started to ache where they’re pressed wide to accommodate the Mute’s size and he shifts, trying to hint that the Mute should move.

One broad hand slides down to press at the base of Diarmuid’s spine, holding him steady as the Mute withdraws. Diarmuid squirms at the feeling, blush flooding his cheeks as he feels spend slip out of him and dampen his thighs.

The Mute just presses kisses along Diarmuid's cheeks, smothering his embarrassment and making him laugh at the ticklish feeling of the Mute’s beard.

They lay there for a long time, tangled together and sharing kisses, until the morning prayer bell rings and the day begins.


End file.
